“iOde
My private portal to a world between,
My placeless place of virtual exchange,
I see through you though you remain unseen
And make familiar what you once made strange.
You make a stranger means to make me ‘friend’
Whom I can 'touch' to 'like', to show I care.
You make a means to every unknown end
And make one little screen an everywhere.
I am familiar with a hundred faces,
All famished for their fifteen minutes fame,
I am half present in a hundred places
But never present in the place I am.
I pull you from my pocket when you call
I touch and swipe as I am bid to do,
You do my bidding too, you do it all,
What will you make of me, or I of you?
”

“here is a link to a blog with the words of this poem and a little more background information, and here also are the words themselves, if you wish to read as well as hear.
http://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2012/10/07/transmutations-an-act-of-thanksgiving/
The sun strikes gold along the Spanish steps,
Patches of god-light where the tourists stray.
The old house is in shadow and still keeps
It’s treasures from the searching light of day.
I found it once, when I had lost my way,
Depressed and restless, sheltering from rain,
Long years ago in Rome. But from that day
Everything turned to gold, even my pain,
Reading the words of one who feared he wrote in vain.
I too was ‘half in love with ease-full death’,
But standing by the window, near his bed,
I almost heard the ‘tender-taken breath’
On which his words were forming. As I read
I felt things shifting in me, an old dread
Was somehow being brought to harmony
Taught by his music as the music fled
To sing at last, as by some alchemy
Despair itself was lifted into poetry
I spent that summer there and came each day
To read and breathe and let his life unfold
In mine. Little by little, made my way
From realms of darkness into realms of gold,
Finding that in his story mine was told;
Bereavements, doubts and longings, all were there
Somehow transmuted in the poem’s old
Enduring crucible, that furnace where
Quick-silver draws the gold from leaden-eyed despair.
Now with the sun I come on pilgrimage
To find this house and climb the foot-worn stair,
For I have lived to more than twice his age
And year-by-year his words have helped me bear
The black weight of my breathing, to repair
An always-breaking heart. Somehow he keeps
His watch on me from somewhere, that bright star…
So, with the words of one who mined the depths,
I sing and strike for gold along the Spanish steps.
”